


Service

by afearfulbride



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dom/sub, M/M, Objectification, Oral Fixation, Sexual Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 13:31:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11738079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afearfulbride/pseuds/afearfulbride
Summary: Sometimes Hanzo needs to be in charge, and sometimes Zenyatta needs to be reminded of how many ways there are to achieve inner peace. feat. dom!hanzo and sub!zenyatta.





	Service

Hanzo fastened the final knot, stepped back, and fixed Zenyatta with the hard, cold eyes of a temple dragon. “Prepare my tea, omnic.”

Zenyatta did not look up. He said: “Yes, master.”

Were he allowed the use of one, Zenyatta could count the number of words allowed in his vocabulary on a single hand, _Yes, master, I’m sorry, Master_ , as if he were some slow, stupid thing without a thought in his head. There were other words, too, but there had never been cause to use them so far, and so he let them sit in the back of his mind as silent witnesses to his obedience.

It should have been galling, and perhaps it had been, to begin with. What it was now was quiet.

What it _did_ now was allow his body to speak for him. Place by place, part by part, Zenyatta catalogued his pains and his pleasures: internal silicone stretched raw, elbow joints strained and locked with his bindings, some eighty-five percent of his receptors on the verge of overload. His arms creaked as he moved, bound behind him with a length of scarlet rope looped into a web of lines and knots, wrist to wrist, shoulders back, spine forced into a sensual arc that thrust out his hips and drew the eye to his waist.

Hanzo had been on magnificent form that night.

Later, he would throw himself into Zenyatta’s lap to have his hair combed and his face stroked and he would beg for forgiveness with wild and desperate eyes- sometimes tear-stained, sometimes choking on his own ragged breaths- while he soothed him in a spoken lullaby. Sometimes they made love again. Sometimes he would fall asleep there, exhausted by his own emotions. It was a routine they’d both fallen into the way one fell into a deep sleep, softly and without resistance, predictably. Or predictably for some. Often Zenyatta suspected that Hanzo did not sleep at all between their sessions.

Now, however, he was beautifully put together, even half a night into their tryst. His _kimono_ , tied loosely at the waist, gaped at his chest and spilled indecorously across his thighs, doing little to conceal the thick red cock sprang up against one thigh, seed and slick still drying on his skin. If Zenyatta focused he could see the red of one palm, blood vessels burst beneath the surface from the impact against his cunt not three minutes earlier. He still ached with the memory of it, the _want_ that had lanced through him in a single blinding second. The way the lips had parted, frothy with cum for Hanzo’s hungry, contemptuous eyes.

“Begin.”

Zenyatta, in perfect _seiza_ lowered himself to size up the equipment before him. To his relief, most of it was familiar. During his time with Genji the omnic had taken it upon himself to study his student’s homeland; his passing interest in tea ceremony as a therapeutic and spiritual practise had opened up into a hobby they could both enjoy.

Context, as always, was key.

First came the linen folded to one side, which he took between the parted seams of his mouth-piece and applied to the tea bowl. The further forward he leant the more his swollen insides twitched as thick spend shifted within him, threatening to dribble out of him at any moment and onto the clean, cold wood of Hanzo’s floor; the stoneware clinked as he clenched almost without thinking, knowing that a single drop spilt would mean the hard crack of his palm in some new secret place, and he’d learned them all. _Is this how you would treat the seed of a Shimada? Show some respect._ His cunt twitched automatically at the thought of those rough hands on him again, exhausted though he was.

But he had to focus. Now that the tea bowl was clean Zenyatta carefully set the cloth to one side and took the end of the scoop between his mouth-parts instead; with the kind of control attained only through years of training he lifted it, dipped it into the waiting caddy and tipped the contents seamlessly into the bowl in a little green heap.

The hot water came next. With its thin handle clasped between his lips Zenyatta tilted his head enough to angle the ladle’s cup into the pot of boiling water to his left. Even as its steam poured against his face-plate and fogged his optic sensors with a fine film of condensation he gathered the presence of mind to maneuvre the water into the bowl without so much as brushing the two together. It made a pleasing sound as it filled the bowl almost to the brim, resonating through the omnic’s body the way the notes of an organ swelled in a church.

It took more work to get the whisk into place. Using his mouth and the softer silicone tongue within Zenyatta just about managed to tip it right side down into the bowl, earning him a quiet huff of approval. It might as well have been a round of applause for the effect it had on his body-- but no, he couldn’t let himself react, not yet. Not until the mixture had been whipped into a fragrant green froth that winking up at him in dainty bubbles.

As he admired his handiwork, Zenyatta’s shoulders almost imperceptibly sank with relief. Beautiful work. Hanzo would be pleased with it, he was sure. The thought warmed his body, throbbed through his clit in anticipation of the attentions it would receive.

Hanzo’s eyes fell upon him, then the tea bowl. There was a pause. Then:

“Bring it to me.”

Zenyatta stared dazedly up at him. Between them lay little more than two feet of space, easily enough for Hanzo to reach out and take the bowl at his own leisure. Surely there was no way he could really _serve_ Hanzo without getting most of it all over the floor in the process?

But then: did it matter? He had been given an order.

“Yes, master.”

The lip of the bowl was thick and uneven against his mouth, pleasingly rustic to the eye but almost impossible to keep a solid grip on; if he wanted to hold it steady he had to bow his head entirely, shrinking his vision to little more than the subtle grain of the floorboards. As he moved he felt it slip, only for his adjustments to send the liquid within sloshing dangerously from side to side. 

Indeed, Zenyatta had scarcely managed to lift the thing off of the floor before he felt the tell-tale heat surge against his mouth. He made it a few inches further before it slopped over the edge entirely.

Scalding liquid spilled down his chin, his throat, triggering a chorus of silent alarms as his processors registered the sudden change in temperature. Automatically his mouth released a gush of saliva-lubricant from his mouth, drooling from the corners to cool the affected area. Into the bowl. Zenyatta made a helpless noise, somewhere between a groan and a chirp, and, above him, Hanzo laughed.

Humiliation seared through his body, _my flesh is mortified_ , words he had heard many years ago in some silent and sombre chamber, now realised in an overheated computer-brain and metal that threatened to buckle at any moment, as if it were as soft and yielding as any human’s. As if he were fragile and ignorant, as if, as if...

He shuffled the final distance, and, trembling, raised his shoulders to offer the bowl to his master.

Hanzo did not take the bowl. Instead Zenyatta watched as a hand appeared beneath his optics and took his chin, forcing it upright- and with it a fresh splash of tea rolling down his faceplate. Before he could so much as begin to worry he found his gaze locked into Hanzo’s eyes, and they were almost enough for him to drop the bowl all over the floor: dark and enormous and glossy, almost feverish, and consumed entirely by the sight before them. He scarcely had to glance lower to see the gleaming thrust of his cock, beading ivory at its tip.

Zenyatta did not have time to gasp when a hand clapped around the back of his neck, demanding intimacy as he scrabbled to recalibrate his balance in compensation. Then, with just the ghost of a smile alighting on his lips, Hanzo leaned forward and drew a long, purposeful line along his jaw with his tongue. Each hot, soft stroke lapped up what little tea and lubricant remained on his faceplate, leaving a gleaming smear of saliva in its wake as the man worked his way down to the delicate geometry of his neck- but even there no inch was left unlavished, licking and sucking at every piston and sensory node until the omnic could only whine and shake like some sweet frightened thing, mindless with sensation and the sheer effort of keeping the cup upright enough to hold the final dregs within.

When he finally pulled back Hanzo’s voice was hoarse around the edges, his mouth soft and ruddy. A second hand found the base of his spine and drew lower still to round his ass.

“Delicious. You make a perfect _oiran_ ,” he murmured, and at once Zenyatta felt himself liquify beneath the man’s words and touches, his resistance caving as a sordid mixture of semen and slick drooled down his thighs and against Hanzo’s waiting fingers. He tutted. “Hm. How undignified.”

“I… I’m s-” The words glitched abruptly into a cry as two of those fingers ploughed into his abused hole, plugging the remains of their fucking back up into him. They crooked mercilessly into a bundle of sensors just inside his entrance with a squelch.

“ _Disgusting_ ,” Hanzo pronounced, and Zenyatta heard himself give a little sob, echoed into the tea bowl. It did not sound unhappy. Another curl of his fingers coaxed a generous trickle of slick into Hanzo’s cupped hand, and, with the heel of his palm, he ground it into the omnic’s cunt.

Light and pleasure and heat rippled, indivisible, through his body. Before Zenyatta could silence himself he found he was moaning, rutting helplessly, wildly, into Hanzo’s fingers; a second later they jammed into him _hard_.

“Control yourself,” Hanzo warned him- as if his own voice were not thick with the kind of belly-deep hunger Zenyatta had only dreamed of until now. But it worked. Somehow, Zenyatta found the control to still himself, and Hanzo hummed in approbation. “Now,” he continued, and his eyes gleamed as if molten. “The rest of it.”

It was only as Hanzo’s hand shifted to take the tea bowl, only as it tilted up against his lip, that he understood. A touch here. A touch there. Zenyatta allowed himself to be molded into shape; when the tea poured into his mouth he did not flinch. When Hanzo’s lips locked against it a moment later, when his tongue probed into the hot, sensitive mess of soft silicone and lubricant and tea, he did not protest, but let the liquid spill messily into the man’s throat with the faintest tilt of his head, a good, silent vessel to serve a needful master. He emptied himself into the man, and as he hollowed out he felt a deep, contented pleasure well up within him instead: fulfilment. Absolute, adoring, uncomplicated.

One could never lose sight of the simple things.


End file.
